


Tiny Little Pieces

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, F/M, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicide, Missing Scene, Post-minisode: Many Happy Returns, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, someday i might get tired of writing John crying but not today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 02:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They watched to the end of the DVD; Sherlock smiled and winked at them and John flicked off the screen again. "So. That's Sherlock." He gave her a smile that was even more forced than the one Sherlock had just displayed. "It's funny. I'd almost forgotten what he sounded like."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Little Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> In restaurant scene in "The Empty Hearse," Mary says to Sherlock "Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?" This is what she means.

Mary turned her key in the lock and pushed the door open, knocking as she did so, which was silly because she had lived here as long as John. "Hello? Are you home?" They'd planned to meet for dinner at seven, but he hadn't shown up, and the texts she'd sent and calls she'd made had gone unanswered. "John?"

He was in the sitting room, curled on the sofa with his back to the rest of the room. He wasn't moving, but she could tell he was awake; she'd learned over the months of their relationship what he looked like asleep, when the lines of his back and shoulders softened, free of the tension they held throughout the day.

"Why didn't you answer your phone?" Mary closed the door and crossed the room toward him, taking in the empty whisky bottle and glass on the table at his side. "What happened?"

John's left shoulder shrugged once and he turned slightly so she could see the side of his face; he had been crying. "Didn't hear my phone," he said. He rolled farther onto his back and raised his arm to peer at his watch. "Shit. Sorry." He sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. "I didn't realize how late it was."

She stood for a moment, considering. She could guess what was wrong. She'd glimpsed hints of it, this jagged edge of massive repressed and unexamined emotion he tried to keep hidden and locked away. He'd never let her see even this much of it before, though; she'd had to uncover tiny bits of it on her own, piecing together the trauma of his old life as she struggled to understand him more.

"It's all right," she said. "We have eggs in the fridge. I can make us something to eat. Move over." 

He slid to the end of the sofa and she sat next to him, letting her flats fall off her feet so she could pull her legs up and lean against him. He sniffed and she slipped her arm around his shoulders. He wasn't trying to hide his emotions from her right now. That was good—that was progress—but neither did he seem likely to tell her why he'd been crying. She sighed internally but knew not to press him; he would tell her what he needed her to know, and hopefully keep taking these agonizingly slow steps toward being all right. She ran her fingers across the nape of his neck and looked around the room, wondering what he might want to talk about instead. "Were you watching telly?" The set was turned on, though there wasn't any picture, just an empty black screen above the glowing green power button.

The muscles in the base of his neck tensed beneath her fingertips. She lifted her hand away for a moment, then settled it back against his skin. 

John didn't say anything for a long moment, then he exhaled. "Yes." He leaned forward and picked up the remote to switch on the DVD player. 

She recognized the man in the video, of course she did, but why there would be a DVD of Sherlock Holmes saying that all of John's friends hated him was beyond her comprehension. "What—where did you get this?"

"DI Lestrade stopped by earlier. He was cleaning his office, found some stuff. Some stuff that was Sherlock's." 

"And...he gave you this." She'd never met Lestrade, knew he'd played a role in Sherlock's downfall but that John didn't blame him. She hadn't realized he was careless enough to give a grieving man a gift that could do nothing but tear open wounds.

John nodded; she didn't miss the glance he gave to his empty glass, but given that she knew how much whisky had been in the bottle before this evening, she wasn't about to offer to find him something else to drink.

They watched to the end of the DVD; Sherlock smiled and winked at them and John flicked off the screen again. "So. That's Sherlock." He gave her a smile that was even more forced than the one Sherlock had just displayed. "It's funny. I'd almost forgotten what he sounded like." 

Mary tried to cuddle closer but John turned his head away, staring toward the window and the dark of night beyond. "How could I forget what he sounded like? Hmm? I still hear his voice. Every time my fucking phone rings, I hear him, calling me to say goodbye." He shook his head and twisted his lips and a small sound escaped from him, an exhalation drawn out into a choked sob, and then he turned back to look at Mary and she saw his face crumple, all the barriers and the socially acceptable facades dissolve at once. She pushed herself up so she could wrap both her arms around him as he bawled against her chest.

When his crying slowed enough that he could speak again, he eased himself away a bit, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. "Sorry. Sorry. It's just...hearing him. Seeing him. I."

"It's okay." Mary stood and stepped past him, keeping a hand on his knee as she reached for the box of tissues on the bottom shelf of the end table. "It's completely understandable."

He took an offered tissue and blew his nose. "If I'd known. If I'd known how much he was hurting. But I had no idea." He folded the tissue in half and tucked it into his shirt pocket, then closed his eyes and started to sniffle again. 

She pulled a second tissue out from the box and leaned in for another embrace. He rested his forehead on her shoulder and shook against her, fewer tears this time but more trembling, though he managed to continue to speak in short, tortured bursts. "It's my fault. I should have seen it. He didn't know how to express himself, but I should've seen. I could've helped. I could've...."

Mary held him tighter but didn't say anything. She knew there was nothing to say, no way to convince him he had done everything he could. Nothing but time would ever help ease the pain he felt over Sherlock's suicide and even that would likely only provide a distancing balm, not an actual end to his guilt. All she could do for John now was hold him and resolve to do everything she could to see that he was never hurt like this again.

Eventually he pulled away from her once more, rubbing at his eyes and offering fresh apologies.

"Don't," she said, and wondered if she should check if he'd moved his gun again. When they'd first met, it had been in a slightly different position nearly every time she looked, but since they'd moved in together she was fairly certain he hadn't touched it. "John, don't apologize for what you're feeling."

He shrugged. "I don't even know what I'm feeling, to be honest." He pulled the used tissue out of his pocket and looked down at it, twisting it between his hands. "I hate him. I hate him so much for what he did. But not as much as I miss him, and I thought it was getting better, but—" She thought he was going to cry again, but instead he just bit at his lip and met her gaze, looking much younger than he normally did, despite the crinkles and lines around his eyes. 

She offered him a small smile in return and moved so she could cover his hands with hers. She chose her words carefully. "It's okay to love him and hate him at the same time, you know." 

He lowered his head and pursed his lips, then nodded. "I know."

Love. John had never said it, but it had been clear to her from the beginning that he'd loved Sherlock, that he still loved him, and while she had tried to unpack the layers so she could understand the relationship better, she'd never fully succeeded. Though she was willing to bet she understood it as well as John himself ever had. 

He shifted on the cushion next to her and she followed his lead, letting their hips and shoulders touch and feeling him relax slightly against her. She wondered if he'd ever sat this close to Sherlock on the sofa back in their old flat, if either one of them had ever relaxed enough to let the other know what they felt. No matter. Sherlock had killed himself and left John alone, and now John was here with her in the new house they shared and Mary didn't know if this was going to last forever but she was starting to think she wouldn't mind if it did. 

She reached over and turned off all the power to the telly and video player, and felt John soften a little more against her side. "Hungry?" she asked.

He nodded. "Let's just order something in." He raised his arm to drape it over her shoulders. "I don't really want you to get up and go into the kitchen."

"All right." She let herself sink deeper against him, enjoying the warmth and solidity of his body now that he had calmed. Maybe someday everything in their life would feel this steady and secure. Maybe someday John would be happy again. He wasn't yet, she knew, but maybe he would be. She couldn't bring Sherlock back for him, but maybe someday he could be happy with what he did have.


End file.
